


If I had a heart

by mikeginsanity (blahblahwahwah)



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-09-17 17:19:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9334943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blahblahwahwah/pseuds/mikeginsanity
Summary: AU FicEx-ballplayer Mike Lawson, the ever discrete Man Friday to the Celebrity Athletes is hired by Ginny Baker. Mike's a professional - but Ginny Baker with her big smile and her big heart make it very difficult for him to keep it strictly that way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This won out when I polled.  
> Mike may seem out of character.

There are a great many reactions he’s come to expect from his clients when they are first introduced to him. Overfriendliness to animosity to downright snubbery.

The last thing reaction Mike expects when he meets _the_ Ginny Baker - is recognition.

“I should tell you I have your rookie card…” Wide, awed, chocolate-brown eyes and a husky, shy voice take him by surprise. “You’ve been my favourite player since…”

That look of reverence, though, is something he hasn’t seen in years. It upsets him. It takes him back to a time when all was right in the world. “Don’t.” He blurts.

She’s silenced.

“Makes you look stupid.” He fires off. “Makes me feel old.”

She raises her eyebrows like she’s offended but then smiles pleasantly.

Amelia Slater gasps. Mike expects the bossy blonde to reprimand him. For a publicist-slash-agent, that woman takes pluckiness to a different level.

Except she’s not surprised at him, as it would turn out.

“You know him?” Amelia looks mortified.

Miss Baker frowns. “Yeah.” She says – like she's leaving out an implied ‘duh’. “He’s Mike Lawson.”

Amelia shakes her head, her blonde straight locks flaying with about as much annoyance as is on her face. She pinches her face at Mike accusingly.

“I did a background check on him Ginny." She asserts. "He’s a nobody.”

Ginny Baker looks like she disapproves of the 'nobody' word.

“Miss Slater.” Mike says, condescedingly. “Your background checks are supposed to come up empty. Discretion is the sole…”

“Amelia – he was a ballplayer.” Baker interrupts. She glances at him. To Mike’s utter surprise she blushes and looks down. “A damn good one.” She says in a small voice. "A _Padre_."

Mike, who spent the last ten years of his life in obscurity is not accustomed to this. He feels like he’s the celebrity, even if for a stupid moment. He’s never been looked at with as much admiration as he sees on the face on the woman the entire world is in love with. He doesn’t quite know how to process all this.

No one who’s Baker’s age remembers him. No one who remembers him, recognizes him. No one who recognizes him – cares.

Slater blinks and turns her attention back to her client. “He was a _Padre_?”

“I like to think that I still am.” He comments.

Amelia shoots a glare at him.

Mike backs up. “At heart.” He offers placatingly.

Slater sighs and then pinches her nose. “Oh God.” She mutters. “That’s him – isn’t it? That poster on your wall?”

 _Hello?_ “Really?” Mike snorts a laugh, cocks his head at Ginny Baker. “You had me up on your wall?

Baker averts her eyes, like a school girl when noticed by her crush.

There are a great many reactions he’s come to feel when introduced to his clients. From annoyance to affection to protectiveness.

This unidentifiable, mysterious feeling in his stomach for Ginny Baker– he doesn’t know what it is. 

 

* * *

 

 

In another life, Amelia Slater would have made for an ideal fuck buddy. She’s direct, intelligent, beautiful, smart and totally his type. His first meeting with her went as with any other over protective, paranoid, type-A personality agent/publicist/PR person. 

“For the record.” She said, rubbing her lips. “I’m not on board with this.”

“For the record.” Mike returned, plainly. “I don’t care.”

“The only reason you’re being considered is because the Al Luongo insists on you and Mr. Araguella approves of you.”

“Mmhmm.” Mike poured over the menu. “I’m thinking the filet-mignon.” He glanced over the top edge of the card. She was visibly pissed off. “Since you’re paying.” He added and grinned at her with his ‘fuck you too’ smile.

“Have you ever had any female clients?”

“Miss Baker would be my first.” He sighed.

“What about mixing business with pleasure?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m a professional. But – if the client needs a friend, I’m a friend.”

“So, you’re like a _Ray Donovan_ for celebrity athletes?”

“Like the TV show? No, that’s not what I do. I don’t cover up criminal activities – but I make sure they don’t end up in that situation, though.”

“Okay.” Amelia Slater rubbed her temples. “How does this work? What do you do?”

“Well, that depends on what my client needs. Athletes aren’t your typical celebrities.”

“How is that?”

“They actually have to deliver real results – in the game. That requires additional mental and physical support, not just PR handling. I provide a companion-service, training-buddy service, addiction assistance. Then, there’s the exclusive package.”

“What’s the exclusive package?”

“Whatever the client-needs-me-to-be service.”

“Meaning?”

“If he – or in this case _she_ needs a sounding board, that’s what I am. They need an assistant, housekeeper, cook – I can do that. If she needs basic body protection – I can do that as well.”

“What do you know about Ginny Baker?”

“First woman in the major leagues.” He said.

“Wrong.” She said and went off into a rant which Mike didn’t much care for. “This girl. She’s the most important woman on the planet. She’s Hillary Clinton with sex appeal, she’s a Kardashian with a skill set…”

“Yeah.” He cut her off, scratching his ear. “I’ve seen ‘em all – they’re all important in some way or the other.”

“What else do you know?”

“The only thing I care to know are my client’s vices. Ginny Baker has none as far as I can tell.”

“You can’t even _begin_ to imagine how huge her popularity is.”

“I don’t care.” He shrugged, squinting at the liquor menu, wondering if he needed glasses.

“You don’t…” Slater sputtered. “Oh my god, do you have any idea how huge the media circus is surrounding her?”

“No, but do you wanna hear what I’m thinking?” He looked up at her.

She lifted a shaped eyebrow expectantly.

“I’m thinkingthat _you_ are the ringmaster.”  He smirked.

Her small jaw dropped.

“Let’s be clear. I don’t like you…” She bit out.

“Then don’t hire me.”

“I’m not finished. I don’t like you. But whatever feedback I’ve got on you – everything points to you being the best and perhaps the perfect fit for this situation.”

Mike leaned back. He has no doubt that Slater’s protectiveness for Ginny Baker held strong elements of concern and friendship. So, he decided to cajole her. “Okay.” He sighed. “Let’s do this the nice way. Why does Ginny Baker need my services?”

Slater let out a tired sigh.

“I’m presuming.” Mike said. “The carefully vetted group of people _you’ve_ surrounded her with are not enough to handle this whole ‘Ginsanity’ thing you’ve created.”

“She wants to live on her own.” Slater said. “She needs a cook, a housekeeper, a bodyguard, a driver, an assistant, a schedule manager. That’s too many people. All that and a solid reliable companion who can help her through…” Slater trailed off.

“Through panic attacks?” Mike asked.

“Who told you that?” Slater hissed. “How the fuck did you know? Nobody knows that.”

Mike figured it out. “She isn’t the first celebrity who gets them.” Mike said, in a reassuring voice. “And they’re not the worst thing – y’know? Probably means she needs _someone_ to cut her some slack.”

“She can handle it.”

“Yeah, sure.” He scoffed. “That kind of media ruckus you created around her , Miss Slater? Nobody handles that.”

 

* * *

 

Ginny Baker’s brand new apartment is a four-bedroom penthouse with an impersonal minimalist modern décor that doesn’t seem to fit her personality.

“Amelia chose it. All of it.” She states when she sees the look on his face.

Mike is surprised she’s able to read him so well.

He drops off his bags in the room assigned to him, freshens up, grabs his laptop as he goes out into the hall.

He finds her pacing up and down in the living room. She keeps shoving her hand into her dark, curly hair and puffing her cheeks out. He files that image away under 'signs of discomfort'. 

She looks so goddamned young, he thinks. Much prettier than he expected in person and clearly nervous as hell.

She sinks into the couch when he makes his presence known.

“You just moved in.” He notes.

She nods.

“Is there something personal you’d like on the walls or on the side tables?” He asks.

She looks surprised and curious.

He drops into the armchair opposite her and then smiles. “It is your apartment. If you like it a particular way – I’ll help you set it up.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It’s what I do.”

“I uhh – look I wasn’t for this. This. You.” She says, fidgeting. “I just wanted my own place – y’know. Some space for myself.”

“I know.”

“I was just sick of living out of a hotel and…” She trails off.

Her apprehension and anxiety aren’t surprising to him; even his male clients are uncomfortable with the situation at first. Though he has to admit he’s not lived with a woman in years, Mike knows how to keep the situation compartmentalized. What perplexes him is the way she talks - like she feels the need to explain her rightful wants and desires. He suspects Amelia Slater has a lot to do with that quirk.

“Then the cleaning lady took pictures of my underwear drawer and posted it on Instagram.” She mutters.

Mike knows. That was the primary reason to hire him.

“I’ve never had a roommate –“ She says, hesitantly. “Never even lived with a boyfriend.”

“When you move in with a boyfriend.” He says. “Our living arrangements get renegotiated.”

She looks at him like the possibility of that hadn’t ever occurred to her.

“So how does this work?” She says, crossing her legs and hugging her knees. “You gonna be like my shadow or something?”

“Something like that.” He smirks at her. “You’re basically paying me to take care of you.”

“Do you have a gun?” She asks, hesitantly.

“Yes. I have a permit for it as well. I’m not a professional bodyguard in the true sense but your security and privacy is a major priority for me. I also keep a taser, mace and an expandable baton. I will be doing a security check of this apartment and your room later. I’ll install a security system if there isn’t already one. You also need to tell me about your preference for windows.”

“Windows?”

“Do you prefer them open –? They’re a hassle if they are open but if that’s what you prefer then I need to put in some counter measures.”

“Why?”

“Risk of fans breaking in, long range lens photographs…” He doesn’t continue when he notes how her eyes widen and she starts wringing her fingers.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have left the Omni, ha?” She remarks, chuckling indignantly.

Mike opens his mouth to console her, but changes the topic. “I’ll suggest making a small home gym out of one of guest bedrooms.”

She nods in agreement immediately . “I’ll email you my fitness regime – will you get the equipment and set it up?”

“I will.”

“Laundry?”

“I’ll be taking care of that as well.”

“I don’t drive.”

“I know. I’ve got that covered.”

“What about my away games?”

“I’ll come for the ones you need me for. If you don’t need me to come or if there’s something to be taken care of here – I’ll stay back.”

“What about social things?”

“I’ll arrange for caterers or event planners as per the need. I’ll stay in my room at house parties. I wouldn’t mind taking off, but I think in the interest of security it’s better that I’m in the apartment.”

She nods.

“If you need me out of the apartment –“ He says. “When you want some personal time. I will step out, okay? You just have to tell me. It’s a no questions asked situation. If you need me to accompany you for any social events, I’ll be there as well.”

"Wow, you've thought of everything."

"It is what I do."

“You gonna cook for me as well?”

He nods. “You’ll need to update me on your diets and eating schedules. You wanna tell me about any food allergies?”

“What seriously?” She blinks. “You’re actually gonna cook? For me?”

“Didn’t Amelia tell you that?”

She shakes her head.

“If you prefer to have a…”

“I hate cilantro.” She blurts, suddenly. “Like – I’m not allergic to it, or anything, it’s just that it tastes like. Actually I don’t know what it tastes like – it’s just gross. I mean literally, it’s soap. Like how can soap be a leaf right? But it’s like…apparently I have a gene that makes me hate it and…”

“Noted.” He says, bemusedly stopping her rant.

“What if I don’t like the food you make?” She frowns, like that’s a major issue for her.

“Then I’ll arrange for a chef – someone I’ve worked with before – again, will be under my supervision.”

“What about cleaning?”

“I’ll make arrangements for that as well. I generally have a team of people in place for everything.”

“So basically I’ll be living in a hotel – except it’s my own apartment.”

“Any activities you wanna do on your own, Miss Baker – you just let me know and we’ll arrange it accordingly.”

She mulls over it and then shrugs. “You gonna run my errands, too?”

“Like dry cleaning and stuff? Yes. I draw the line at breaking up with your boyfriends for you.”

She throws her head back and laughs like a horse. Mike finds it alarming how much he likes that sound.

“I am serious about that.” He says, trying to hold his smile. “My clients have asked that of me in the past.”

Her laughter stops instantly. He’s greeted with wide eyes again. “Really?”

“Yep.”

“Wow.” She looks freaked out. “What about um –shopping for me, I don’t mean clothes. I mean like groceries and… _other_ stuff?”

“Yes.”

“You’d think I was old enough to push a cart around.” She grins.

Mike finds her humour endearing. He pushes the feeling away. “I’m not squeamish about buying tampons Miss Baker. But if you want to keep that personal, I’ll be the guy driving you to the pharmacy.”

Her ears go red, she drops her head in her knees and mumbles something.

“I’m sorry?” He prods.

“Mike Lawson just offered to buy me tampons.” Her muffled whine comes, and her curly hair shakes. “Kill me now.”

Mike doesn’t know why but he’s filled with an absurd need to grin from ear to ear.

“Miss Baker…”

“Ginny.” She looks up, sighing like she’s stressed. “Or Baker’s fine.”

“Baker.” He says, finding that he's more comfortable with it than her first name, it gives some semblance of distance. “My USP – is discretion. Okay? I wouldn’t do what I did, if I wasn’t good at keeping people's secrets. This includes stuff you tell me in relation to your job.”

“Have you ever – done this for any my teammates?” She tenses up.

“None of your current ones. Don’t worry.”

Her shoulders relax.

“No one will recognize me.” He says. The fact that she recognized him is a miracle, but he doesn't tell her that. “If anyone asks just tell them I’m your assistant.”

“Okay.” She sighs, combing her hair back. “I um – I guess Amelia told you - I can get a little overwhelmed at times.”

“You’re not the first athlete to get panic attacks, Baker. You won’t be the last.” He says, reassuringly.

She looks worried that he knows. She spends a great deal of time chewing her lower lip.

Her lips are pink and full – Mike looks away to distract himself.

He makes a gesture of zipping up his mouth to assert his respect for her privacy.

“Thanks.” She says. “For – calling me that.”

“What?”

“An athlete. I’m here to play ball. It’s just that – sometimes all I’m made out to be is some vapid superstar, which I am not.”

Mike didn’t make any presumptions about her being comfortable with her fame. There was no doubt she was among the ‘greatness thrust upon them’ category. He refrains from making any patronizing statements to the affect.

She gives him a wan smile and then nods at his knees. “How are they?”

He's taken aback at her inquiry. He’s surprised she knows – or maybe she _remembers_. He’s actually touched by her concern. The knees that put him out of commission years ago, that forced him into obscurity – led to the breakdown of everything he held dear – they’re also a reminder of young she really is.

“They’re okay – can’t shift the same though.” He jokes wryly.

“I am sorry about…” She sighs. “I’m sorry.”

So is Mike.

“I guess being a former pro-baller gives you an edge with the celebletes, ha?” She says, changing the subject to his relief.

“It does.”

“What about days off?”

“I need three days off a month of my choosing. It's usually respectful of my client's schedule.”

“Seriously?” She looks surprised. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“What about your wife?”

His heart stops.

“You’re married to Rachel Patrick, aren’t you?” She says, frowning.

Mike feels that stab of loss that’s all too fresh and all too familiar.

“Not any more.” He says, his voice coming out steady and balanced.

“Oh.” She seems astonished. She shakes her head and straightens up like she’s embarrassed. “I’m really - really sorry.”

So is he.

“Okay Mr. Lawson.” She sighs. “I er – I guess…I’ll go take a shower.”

“Mike is fine. Or Lawson.”

“Right.” She shifts uncomfortably.

“So.” He sighs. “Are you hungry?”

A bright smile that he appreciates far too much than he would want to admit shines on her face.

“Always.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG you guys. I'm so blown away by the response.  
> This chapter was already written and about to be 86ed. I hope you like it.

Mike wakes up with a start to the sound of violins screeching in his head.

There’s a crick in his back, his knees are stiff, his dick is hard and the surroundings are unfamiliar. Nothing unusual.

A base and some drums start to thump, merging with the wailing violins. “It’s way too early for this shit.” He mutters, checking the time.

He rattles around his brain, trying to recall who the client is – remembers that the pretty face, that curly hair, those deep eyes, deep dimples on either side of a big smile that unsurprisingly made it into his dreams the night earlier.

It's safe to assume that Ginny Baker is awake. He wanders out into the hallway, dragging on a t-shirt. The cacophony appears to be emerging from behind the closed bedroom opposite his – hers.  Mike scratches the back of his head, wincing as the sound intensifies, walks briskly to the kitchen and gets a pot of coffee on, making a note-to-self that Baker starts early and has an annoying taste in music.

She saunters into the hall yawning loudly just as he's opening the cabinets searching for the cups.

The first thing he sees is that dark beehive of untamed curls hiding her face – but that isn’t what gets Mike’s real attention. (He lives in California. He’s well past the age where he thinks with his dick. He was married for a while, even had a decent active sex life after. Several of his past clients were married, or living with girlfriends.)

Unintended skin shows don’t floor him. Women roaming around in a state of undress aren’t supposed to be a shocker.

There is really no reason for his dick to wake up like that.

(Except. It does.

One would think he’d never seen a half-naked woman before.)

She’s got a pretty average rack that a flimsy wash-beaten grey tank doesn’t hide well. Oblivious to his presence or his stare, she picks a random spot, decides to bend, flattening her palms on the floor with an ease that he envies, like her spine is made of neoprene. Right there, in the middle of the living room, Ginny Baker gives him an eyeful of black bikini-cut utility panties clinging to a gorgeous, curved, taut ass -  pear-shaped and… _fucking perfect_.

Mike gapes at her – feels a little incapacitated seeing as his mouth hangs open at the sight and he’s unable to do anything about it.

She sinks to her knees in a prayer-pose and catapults her body upside down, supporting her weight on her head, folding her elbows on the floor. Her tank slips and he’s granted her healthy view of underboobs, a four-pack, a slit-like navel. Long, toned muscular legs scissor out elegantly with her feet curved, toes curved like a ballerina's in an upside down split. Her abs clench and release as she alternates her legs, and it’s only because he’s fixed to the view that he can see the tense tremor in her graceful movements.

A dirty, highly inappropriate vision flashes in his mind. His mouth goes dry and his pants feel three sizes smaller.

The coffee maker sputters and whistles - it might as well be a bloody siren. He slides behind the breakfast counter to hide the massive tent in his pants, doesn’t look in the direction of the sudden thud and shriek that follows.

Mike would have envied the agility with which she sprung to her feet if he wasn’t so – uneasy. He squeezes his eyes shut, keeps his raging hormones in check, looks up at her and musters a smirk.

“Good morning.” He croaks. His throat feels like it’s filled with chalk.

He turns towards the coffee machine. When there’s no response. Mike looks back at her.

If she weren't gawking at him like he was some goddamn rapist, eyes filled with horror, crossing her hands across her body and tugging that silly tank, he probably would have laughed at how ridiculous she looked.

“Er…hi?” Her husky voice sounds thick with sleep. She blinks rapidly and then straightens her expression. “Hi. Sorry – I forgot about you – I mean, that you were living here.”

“Hey it’s totally fine.” He acts casual, turns his attention to the coffee. “You’re not used to having a stranger around. What should I make you for break-?”

The sound of pattering footsteps scurrying in the other direction has him turn around to find her gone. Mike braces the edge of the kitchen island and heaves a sigh of relief, willing his stupid dick to get back in line.

A twinge of guilt hits him in the ticker, an internal self-reprimand at his lack of discipline. He repeats the talk he’s had with himself in the past about boundaries with some added clauses.

 _She’s not just any woman, buddy._ He tells himself. _She’s_ the _client. Be a fucking professional._

The sound of footsteps alert him again. They're tentative, slower. She’s covered herself up in a robe and track pants. Discomfort still lingers on her face, but there’s a stubbornness around her mouth, like she’s convincing herself it’s no big deal that a strange man saw her in that state.

Why on earth he finds that unkempt mane attractive is completely beyond him. The way she gathers it into a pony tail tugs at his heart.

Mike distracts himself. “So.” He clears his throat. “You need to tell me how you take your coffee.”

“I don’t care.” She says, not meeting his eyes. “I like sugar in my morning coffee…lots of it.”

Seems like a fair way to re-start everything.

“How do you feel about milk or creamer?” He says, trying to sound suave.

She shrugs, finally glances up at him and smiles sheepishly. Mike acknowledges her with a nod, refuses to acknowledge the effect her smile has on him.

He opens the fridge, mentally tapping his head trying to gather his senses and - “Woah!” he exclaims.

There’s at least four different brands of grape soda in front of him.

“Geez! Baker!” He drawls, unable to contain his amusement. “Is there an impending grape soda crises that I should know about?”

When he glances at her, she’s squeezing her lips, her dimples pop – almost impishly. “You can never have too much grape soda.” She shrugs.

“Apparently not.” He bites back a comment about too much sugar. Clearly she has the tastes of an eight-year-old.

She hops onto the breakfast counter, sitting in a cross legged lotus-pose, even when there’s a perfectly decent chair right next to it. She juts her chin out at him stubbornly, like she’s daring at him to judge her on the grape soda.

He resists the urge to chuckle.

She accepts the cup from him, eyes fluttering shut momentarily as the aroma hits her. “There’s some cereal in the top left shelf.” She says, sipping it before groaning with satisfaction.

“That’s all you eat for breakfast?” He wonders aloud, heading to the cabinet she’s directed him to.

“No.” She replies, sounds condescending. “That’s what I eat _before_ breakfast.”

Mike smiles at the cabinet. He gets her a bowl, follows her specifications:

“Half bowl of cereal…that’s not half! Okay, maybe three-fourths. Splash of cold milk…that’s not a splash! Okay! Maybe fill the bowl half way. Sprinkle of raisins. Old man! For real? That’s it? Okay maybe more than a sprinkle, yes - a lot of raisins. No sugar.”

It’s pointless to resist it, he decides. By the time he hands her the bowl there’s a big fat grin on his face. She rattles out an equally impressive breakfast order, munching on the cereal noisily.

Okay – so he finds her adorable. He's never felt that sentiment for his past clients. But then again, none of his past clients that behaved like overgrown pre-adolescents managed to pull it off as well as her.

“So what’s the plan today?” She asks.

“Depends on yours.” He scratches his beard, checking the pantry and starts pulling out ingredients.

“You gonna watch the game?” 

“What game?”

“The game against the _Dodgers_.” She says, frowning. “Are you off baseball completely?”

“No, I’m not. I just don’t have time to watch games live.”

“They’re skipping my start today.” She sighs, sounding unhappy about it.

“Start at what?” He asks, pretending to be clueless.

“The game?” She offers.

It’s too easy. Mike bites back his smile. “What game?”

The look she’s throwing him - Mike would bet a solid fifty that she thinks he’s got premature dementia.

“What’s wrong with you, old man? You’re acting like you don’t know what I do for a living.” She shakes her head, confused.

“No I don’t.” He says, with a straight face. “What is it you do again?”

She narrows her eyes at him, like she’s catching on.

“Y’know…” He tips his chin, keeping a hand to the side of his mouth like he’s sharing a secret. “I hear the new starting pitcher of the _Padres_ throws like a girl.” He adds, biting back his smile.

She gives in and grins, hacking out a carefree laugh. “Yeah, she does.” She nods, all smarmy.

“She?” He jokes with a straight face. “No! They let women pitch in the major leagues now? Get out!”

She swats her spoon. Droplets of milk splatter on his shift. He strokes his beard in mock pensiveness. “Wait, I know what you do. You’re an actress, right?”

Ginny makes a face.

“Or is it a stunt woman?” He ribs. “Or is it a body double for pitcher?”

“Body double?” She frowns.

“Yeah – really convincing one.” He takes her empty cereal bowl from her, sets it aside. “Almost had me fooled that was a fastball the other day.”

Her jaw drops and eyes widen in mock indignation. Mike is amazed at how easily her dimples shine even when she’s pretending to be angry. When she can’t keep the act up anymore, peals of laughter sputter from her mouth. Mike thinks it’s the most winning sound he’s heard in years.

“Do you wanna come?” She says eagerly. “I’ve got tickets.”

“Nah!” He waves it off. “I have stuff to do today. Usual preliminaries. Security overview, errands, all that jazz.”

“Okay.” She says, shrugging her broad shoulders. “Thanks, Old Man.” She says when he hands her another cup of coffee.

“You don’t have to thank me.” He says.

“D’you need help?” She asks, slurping the coffee loudly like a six year old. “I mean I’m no masterchef but I can – I dunno cut the egg-yolks or something?”

He thinks she’s joking, but she looks so sincere - “You mean whisk ‘em?” He says.

“Yeah. That.” She says, ducking her chin sheepishly.

“This is my job, Baker.” He remarks. “I’m not doing you a favour, you’re paying me for it.”

She seems a little miffed by his comment.

“But thank you for the offer.” He says, surprised at how he misses her smile instantaneously.

“Sure thing, old man.” She pipes up quickly and hops off the counter. “I’ll go get showered before Amelia comes. Thanks for…” She gestures to her empty cup and bowl. “…all this. Even if it is your job.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” He starts to say and then scowls when something occurs to him. “And - I’m not an old man!” He calls after her, but she’s already disappeared.

Something tells him he’s stuck with that nickname.

 

* * *

 

 

No one who lived in urban civilization in the twenty-first century had not heard of Ginny Baker.

Mike flatly refused the job at first.

His last client was a handful, and the experience had Mike add another set of clauses in his standard contract. He was still smarting from Rachel's departure. (Of the host of reasons he had anticipated for Rachel to walk out on their marriage, infidelity wasn’t one of them.)

He planned to take a trip to the south of France, lick his emotional wounds in private, have meaningless sex, or get roasted on a beach or all of the above.  

If it weren’t for Al – that’s exactly what Mike would have been doing right now.

“I like her.” Al had said. “She pays attention, follows orders most of the time. Shows up for practice on time. She reminds me of you - back in the day. She’s a hard-worker and she contributes to the team. And as much as I want to treat her the same as any other player – she is the first woman in our ball club. She’s a tough kid. But she’s dealing with too much. So please, think over it? Her agent’s a handful but she’s legit. She’s got Baker’s best interests at heart.”

 

* * *

  

Mike knew that Amelia Slater wasn’t kidding about the media frenzy, but he still underestimated it. There was a sea of people and reporters camping outside the front by the time was Baker ready to leave that morning.

It was insane.

(Just like her appetite. He'd laid out a mini buffet before he went for his shower, by the time he was out, it was all gone, the plates were clean and Baker was dropping them off in the sink.

“Work hard, eat hard.” She remarked when she noticed his expression.

Not that he minded it one bit. It was – kind of a turn on, but he doesn’t think about it.)

It doesn’t take an idiot to realize why Amelia selected this overpriced, oversized ultra-luxe apartment for a client who plans to live alone.

It’s close to Petco. It would be cheaper and less maintenance than a house. Five other celebrity residents live here – meaning exceptionally well planned security with at least three heavily guarded back exits. But -

“You wanna ask me something, old man?” Baker says to him while they’re riding the elevator down.

She reads him pretty easily, Mike realizes. “It would have been easier to stay at the Omni.” He remarks.

“It would.” She sighs. “But I make the calls.” She shrugs. “And I decided I need my own space.”

He doesn't question that. It's not his place.

 

* * *

 

Ten years at this gig and Mike’s seen his share of catastrophic humans to identify them from the get go. 

At the end of the day, despite their hearts-of-gold, majority of his clients are self-absorbed, narcissistic little shits. Spoilt senseless by agents, managers, family members - people who treat them with kid gloves, instead of exercising a firm hand.

Mike would know, he used to be one of them.

What’s interesting about Ginny Baker though – she displays none of those tell-tale markers. She’s self-assured, confident but she’s not arrogant. It makes him wonder if her lack of haughtiness is just a display, or if it’s just her personality.

Only time will tell.

Either way, it makes her irresistibly likeable.

Mike was likeable in his day as well but no one would ever accuse him of being humble. At Ginny’s age, he was a cocky sonnovabitch. So what if he don’t know his right butt-cheek from its left. Three and a half years in the majors - he thought he was invincible and the world was his personal bitch.

And then it all ended in the blink of an eye.

 

“Baseball’s a small sliver of your life.” Al would constantly hammer. “You gotta figure out a life without it.”

The fame, fortune, celebrity and strain of professional sports is enough to weigh down on the personal lives of the strongest of men and women in sport. Mike’s read and heard plenty of horror stories of what happens to washed up athletes after career ending injuries and retirement.

All things considered, he considers himself a lucky to be alive.

Life in the major leagues was like the thrill of a drug that one didn’t get off from so easily. Playing baseball was the only thing he ever did well. It was devastating to have it taken away so cruelly. The first two years after his career ended, Mike was a perpetual drunk. Hostile, in ten different kinds of pain, eight levels of angry. Al got him a stint as a scout, but it didn’t take. He was so bitter and resentful, so prone to envy, that the mere mention of younger, abler players would send him into a rage. Players who had the freedom to live out the dream that Mike resented as his stolen birthright. His behavior screwed up his chances for a go at assistant manager. His life was in shambles.

His business didn’t start out as a business as much as an act of friendship.

His friend and one-time mentor, a senior _Padre_ named Jackson, whose career outlasted Mike’s but ended with a doping scandal that inadvertently outed his drug addiction...

 _T_ _hat_ was the wake-up call for Mike.

The man was found fish-belly-white, at the brink of death by his six-year-old. Mike got his head out of his ass long enough to visit him at the hospital. By that time, Jackson’s wife had already filed for divorce, denying him access to his kids. The massive fines he incurred from the scandal meant he couldn’t sustain the cost of a good rehab facility. His contract had been terminated, his accolades stripped. Jackson was left with nothing. 

Sitting there, watching a grown man cry, lamenting the destruction of all that he'd built, a man that Mike admired and respected so much – Mike realized he was looking into his own future. Baseball may have been the best thing in his life, but Rachel came a close second. Mike was coming dangerously close to losing her - and he didn’t want that.

The only way Mike could help Jackson, was also the only other thing Mike could do fairly decently that wasn’t baseball related. Having a trainwreck for a mother meant that Mike knew how to look after people. He quit the heavy drinking and settled for being a responsible house-husband. Even if he could no longer offer the glamourous life Rachel deserved, he hoped that being around and being available would help her growing career and trying schedule. At least, if he helped her build her promising career, it might come close to make up for all the shit he put her through.

So he sobered up, hung out with Jackson - helped him sober up too, helped him restart his life – ended up restarting his own.

It was cathartic that way.

A few months after Jackson got his life together, Mike got a call from him, asking to help out a friend. A relatively young pro-basketball player who was going through a psychological crisis after a minor injury that put him on the DL. “I think he needs a buddy.” Jackson sighed. “I can only think of the best one I had.”

Mike offered to do it for free – but then as the requests came pouring in his lawyer saw a fiscal potential in it. Before he knew it, Mike had a new job.

And undefined job profile that paid the bills and then some. Companion-for-hire may make him sound like some man-geisha but there were a million worse ways he could have ended up.

So yeah, even if he never got his spot at Cooperstown, Mike Lawson likes to think he had a pretty decent life after baseball.

 

* * *

 

As a habit, he stays away from his old team.  Keeping his identity reserved wasn’t the issue. He’d never had the privilege to play at Petco; it opened after he was out of the game. All of his old teammates had retired, no one knew him save for some of the old clubbies, Al and Buck.

It’s just that for the short three and a half years that he was a _Padre_ , the team was the only thing that gave him the sense of home and a stability he’d longed for all his life.

The nostalgia and heartache he feels every time he walks into a ballpark is like an unbearable pain that cannot be described.

Mike is not surprised to find Amelia Slater waiting on Ginny at the back entrance of clubhouse when he goes to pick her up after the game. The woman gives his casual appearance a once over and nods curtly. He wonders if he’s supposed to dress in semi-formals the way her yuppie assistant does, then realizes he doesn’t give a fuck.

Mike knows that the iciness and attitude has been toned down deliberately when she acknowledges him. He makes no presumptions about her motives. “Maybe you can lose the beard, ah?” Amelia says, looking at her phone.

“Why?”

Her icy blue eyes snap up. “Why?” She echoes. “Because I say so.”

“I don’t work for you.” He shrugs.

Her mouth drops and then she closes it, licking her lips, straightening up and taking a predatory stance. “Ginny is the biggest thing to hit the newswaves since…well I don’t know – maybe OJ. It doesn’t look good for her image if her assistant looks like a some…sort of grizzly bear.”

Mike clucks his tongue at her.

“Did you just ‘tsk’ me?” Amelia looks shocked.

“I believe I did.” He sneers at her. “You’re not my boss, Miss Slater and even if you were – I still wouldn’t shave unless I wanted to. Are we clear?”

Amelia grinds her teeth in a fashion that makes Mike wonder about the state of her jaw. She takes in a deep breath and hisses it out. She forces a pleasant smile on her face and then - “So, how was the first day?” She asks, as though the last few minutes of back and forth had never happened.

“It was fun.” He says. “Saw her naked. Took a picture and posted in Facebook.”

Amelia’s eyes widen in a way that’s almost comical. The insipid assistant besides her looks stunned at first, then he frantically pulls out his phone and starts pawing at it.

He chuckles sarcastically. “Relax, dude.” He snorts. “I’m joking.”

“That’s not funny.” She looks shaken. Clearly the woman doesn’t like to joke about Ginny.

A noisy cackle behind him has their attention. He sees a slender beautiful black lady, observing them with crossed arms and amused eyes.

“I thought it was a little funny.” She smiles at him and extends her arm. “Hi! I’m Evelyn– I’m Ginny’s friend. Blip Sanders is my husband.”

He gives her a charming smile and shakes her hand.

“So, you’re Mike Lawson.” Evelyn remarks, eyeing him up and down

“I can hardly believe it myself at times.” He drawls.

“Ginny’s…assistant?” Evelyn prods.

“Yep.”

“That is weird.” Evelyn mutters.

“Why so?”

“I dunno.” Evelyn smiles sheepishly. “It just is. I’m sorry. She likes you though.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Amelia butts in. “It’s only been one day.”

Mike sighs.

Amelia looks up at Evelyn and then her face goes a little pale. “Did she tell you she likes him?”

“I fail to see how that is a problem.” Mike says.

“Not in so many words.” Evelyn says, frowning.

Amelia gives Evelyn a condescending look.

“Yeah well – the way to that girl’s heart is food.” Evelyn states. “And she sent me a picture of those pancakes you made. So…I’m thinking you’re definitely on a list of people she likes.”

“That’s preposterous.” Amelia shakes her head.

“You’re preposterous.” Evelyn mutters in a way that only Mike can hear.

He decides he likes Evelyn Sanders.

The Padres players start filtering out one by one. Baker – as Mike expects lags behind the group, walking with Blip Sanders. She looks flustered and is animatedly whispering at him in a way that implies discontent.

“Don’t sweat it, Gin.” Blip cajoles her. “It takes time.” He spots him and gives him a scrutinizing look. “Is that…?”

Ginny’s distressed face changes dramatically when she spots him. He’s surprised she’s smiling at him like he’s the best thing she’s seen all day. Mike replies with a smile that is wider than he intends.

“Hey! Lawson! This is my friend, Blip Sanders…” She thumps her colleague. “And Blip this is my friend, Mike.”

“Technically, he’s your assistant.” Amelia corrects. She’s looking at Mike– like she needs to impress that fact into him. “But…” Amelia tosses her head. “Nuance.”

That irritates him. “Technically, I’m also her roommate, but...” He says, getting a bitchypants facial response from Amelia. “Nuance.” He adds.

Blip Sanders and his wife, Mike notes have similar intrigued expressions. “Best pissing contest ever.” Evelyn sings.

Ginny snorts a laugh and shakes her head. “Ease up, Ameila.” She says. “Hey Eliot!” She greets the other guy.

Eliot looks surprised that Ginny’s acknowledged him, he mumbles something unintelligible.

“How was the game?” Mike asks.

“Perfect.” Ginny nods with a sarcastic smile. “We lost.”

He knows. “Ah!” He smiles at her. “You’ll get ‘em, tomorrow.” He says. “You ready to go?”

“I was planning to hang out with the them.” Ginny says, pointing to the Sanders’ couple, looking at him uncertainly.

“Sure!” Mike says. “Text me the address and call me when you’re done, I’ll come pick you up. If you decide to stay over, let me know.”

Ginny seems surprised. “Is that okay? You don’t mind?”

“Why would he mind?” Amelia speaks, hastily. “He’s got no business minding. He’s not your…” Amelia trails off.

 _Dad._ Amelia wanted to say, but didn’t. Clearly a touchy topic, Mike notes inwardly, because Ginny’s leveling Amelia with a look that makes the otherwise formidable woman back off.  

She gives Amelia an angry smile as a goodbye. It turns to a pleasant smile for Mike, with a thanks and leaves with the Sanders’. Mike waits for her to disappear into parking before he turns to Amelia.

“Let’s get one thing clear.” She hisses at him before he can speak. “If you screw this up, you’re gonna have a lot more to deal with than a ruined reputation. You’re gonna have to deal with me.”

“Okay. Let’s hash this out.” Mike sighs long, rubbing his brow. “You agreed to hiring me. So, what is your problem with me?”

“Nothing.” Amelia sneers and him then gives him a menacing look that makes his blood run cold. “Yet.” She adds.

 

* * *

 

Mike learns a great deal about Ginny over the course of the next few weeks.

She’s the real deal on every front. Determined, disciplined, organized, focussed and easily the least-problematic of his clients till date. She works way harder than Mike did when he was a rookie. She didn’t have fits of frenzy, temper tantrums or unreasonable requests. Her childish antics at home notwithstanding, she's extraordinarily mature for her age.

Her stressors, Mike learns, are more external than internal. She doesn’t have very many friends. She spends a lot of time on the phone with her brother, spends far too little with her mother. Her social life is confined to the post-game drinks with teammates and her time at the Sanders' home.

Her agent, clearly doesn’t have the concept of boundaries set. She barrels her way into Ginny’s private time, pesters him for information that would indicate Ginny's physical, mental and emotional status, keeps trying to control who Ginny meets with, what public opinions she can and cannot have. Even though there is a clear affection and protectiveness in her attitude towards Baker, Mike gets the sense that Amelia will stop at nothing to convince Ginny that her way is the right way.

He doesn’t judge – but it does create a cause for concern. After all, the client is the priority. Not her agent.

But Amelia is not what concerns him the most.

Although friendly and for all purposes caring, Ginny doesn’t seem inclined to get adjusted to him.

Mike realized in time, that she began waking up earlier – pushing her workout timing to coincide with his waking time - probably to avoid the morning interactions. For a woman living in a four bedroom, she just hides out in hers whenever she isn’t skulking out in the apartment’s in-house gym. She doesn’t come out unless there’s a meal involved or a visitor. There are the squeals, yelps, jolts and shocked wide eyed looks whenever he walks in unannounced into any room that she’s in. By the end of the first ten days, Mike realizes that Ginny displays nervous, wary behaviour around him.

That - is troublesome. It doesn't create space for trust. Doesn't allow him to do his job effectively.

He picks up her dry cleaning one night, returns home to some awful loud, bass-ey, dance music reverberating from the apartment. He unlocks the door, expects her to be entertaining friends. But, she’s alone, flailing around, dancing carelessly, lashing her head back and forth, wearing nothing but a tank and shorts.

It’s a mesmerizing sight –  she moves with grace and fluidity.

Her secretive, big, self-satisfied smile fades instantly when she spots him. She stops jumping and reaches to turn the music off.  The glow on her face gets shrouded with that shy, reluctant look as she mumbles something unintelligible and seems ready to take off.

Mike regrets interrupting. Also realizes that he's tired of her apprehension.

“Hey!” He says, stopping her before she scampers off. “Can we talk?”

“Sure.” She says, fidgeting.

He hooks the dry-cleaning on the pegs behind the door, heads to the couch. She straightens her shorts and then sinks into an armchair opposite him. If she weren’t conscious, Mike knows she’d probably have draped herself across both armrests like a nine-year-old. Her back is ramrod straight, she’s crossing her hands over her breasts – and Mike knows why. She’s not wearing a bra and her nipples are poking through the fine fabric.

As much as he’d like to pretend it doesn’t excite him to see them, he knows he’s just lying to himself. Nonetheless – he’s not being paid to think about her nipples.

“What’s up? You’re using your serious voice.” She says.

His jaw twitches. “I have a serious voice?”

“Er - yeah.” She says, widening her eyes at him like he’s an idiot for not knowing that.

“Okay.” He sniggers. “Good to know. Um – I need you to do something for me.”

“Shoot.”

“I need you to ignore me.”

She blinks.

Mike leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “Look, Baker – you’re basically paying me a boatload of money to be a glorified housekeeper, assistant, cook and a wimpy half-bodyguard. But this is not going to work if you think of me as an intruder.“

“I don’t think of you as an intruder.” She says, quickly.

“This is your apartment.” He says. “I don’t think you feel free to enjoy it as much as you want to.”

She puffs out a long sigh and then, shifts uncomfortably.

“I know you’re not used to – having someone like me around. So, I figure the best way for you to get around it, is pretend that I’m not here. I’ve already signed three NDAs, if you want I can help you draw up some more so I can sign them. You won’t have to worry about any violations of your privacies -”

“I know that.”

“Then act like it. I am not allowed to judge you. It’s even there in the contract. Something tells me you had to fight Blondie to get your privacy and your rightful wish to stay at your own apartment.”

She looks at him, doesn’t nod or shake her head. He looks at her, patiently waiting for her to speak.

“I just –" She sighs. “I thought having my own apartment would mean I could just eat ramen and popcorn all day if I wanted and walk around naked.” She mutters.

Mike sucks in a breath, tries not to think about her perky boobs or her ass. “Not that I’m averse to you walking around naked all day.” He gives her a shit-eating grin, and she makes a face. “But...ramen and popcorn?”

She sticks her chin out at him like she’s daring him to berate her on her eating habits. A small smile plays at her face. He sees her broad shoulders slacking back. She draws her feet up and then curls into the armchair like a cat.

“Can you at least treat me like the glorified help that I am?” He asks. “Look, if you don’t want me to do your laundry…” He says. “Just tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Baker, you wash your undergarments in your bathroom and hang it out to dry in the duct area.” He points out. “You don’t have to do that. Your apartment, your washing machine, remember?”

She averts her eyes.

“I’m sort of used to doing it…by myself.” She says. “I just – that washing machine’s too fancy. It's like the command centre of a starship.”

“Then ask me and I’ll show you how to use it.”

“What if you steal my bra and sell it on e-bay?” She asks, so petulant and childish.

“I promise I won’t steal your bra…” He half-laughs. “Maybe I’ll sniff your undies.”

“Ew!” She scrunches her face.

“Because that’s what you think I am right? A goddamned perv?” He asks sarcastically.

“You look like a goddamn perv.” She mutters, drawing a circle around her chin.

“Oh – we’re gonna make fun of the beard now?” He mocks offence. “Okay – yeah, that’s it – I’m out.”

“No. You can’t get off that easily, old man.” She starts to grin. She starts wagging her legs, too. "I have a signed contract to prove it."

“C’mon!” He pleads. “I’m here to make sure that kinda shit doesn’t happen. The point is – “ Mike raises his eyebrows at her. “It’s your place – your apartment. This is where you should feel safe and free. And if I don’t make you feel comfortable then we can totally renegotiate the living arrangements. I can come and go as per your preference.”

Her eyes snap up. She looks more alarmed by the suggestion than relieved.

“No!” She says. “I – I don’t want that.”

“You don’t have to hide out in your bedroom, then. You don’t have to worry about what you wear or how loud you sing or how badly you hum…”

“I’m a bad hummer?” She blinks.

“The worst.” He nods.

“Well, that compliment makes me feel sooo comfortable.” She says, sarcastically.

Mike smirks at her. “You don’t have to ask me to make something and then feel guilty about it…” When she opens her mouth to interrupt him, he stalls her. “Don’t say you don’t feel guilty. You have a face, I have eyes.”

“I just - don’t like to ask things.” She says.

“You don’t want to become dependent on anyone, I get that.” Mike acknowledges.

“No, it’s not that, it’s just – ever since my Dad died –before Amelia came on –“ She looks forlorn. “I’ve pretty much been on my own. Asking for anything - usually means there’s a quid pro quo involved and I’m just not comfortable with that.” She huffs out. “I can’t just ignore you like you’re nobody, Mike.”

“You know that most bosses don’t even bother to learn their assistant’s names. They can’t even remember their faces. I’ll bet you Amelia doesn’t know Eliot’s last name.”

“I’m not your boss, Old Man.” She says.

“Look, I know there are limitations to this arrangement.” He says. “Maybe the whole walking around naked thing may not work, for either of us…”

She rolls her eyes at that. 

“But..." He stresses. "You pay me a lot of money, Baker. That’s a quid-pro-quo in itself.” He looks at her seriously. “And that makes you my boss.”

She rubs her lips. “Well, I’m not that sort of person.”

“No.” He agrees. “You are a good person. That’s what gives me a moral, along with a legal responsibility to look out for you. You are my priority. I answer only to you. Not your agent.”

Ginny flops back and then does exactly what he would have had her do in the first place. She sprawls across the breadth of the armchair and then groans out a sigh.

“That’s what this is, isn’t it?” He asks. “It doesn’t bother you to live at the Omni. You barely have any free time and you’re used to living out of suitcases. It’s how this life is, I get that, especially on the road." He pauses. She doesn't meet his eyes, but he can see how pink her ears are turning. "This is about restricting access to her." Mike points out. "This needing your own space thing? It’s about Amelia, isn’t it?”

She looks at him and then nods. “Don’t get me wrong.” She says. “I like her a lot. She's a friend, even. I appreciate everything she does for me. She goes above and beyond it’s just…” She trails off.

Mike understands. He doesn't tell her that he’s seen it before.

“Okay.” She puffs out her cheeks. “Fine, I’ll loosen up. Starting right now.”

“You can start by not freaking out every time I enter the room.” He taunts her as he gets up off the couch. She reaches her leg out kicks his knee as if to chide him on his audacity just as he crosses the side.

He tugs her ankle playfully, her skin feels smooth to touch, Mike releases it before he gives into the urge to rub his thumb long the soft skin on the side of her achilles tendon.  “Tell me what you want, Baker.” He says.

“Can you make me some ramen?” She asks.

“Something, that isn’t food –“ He widens his eyes at her. “For once – just try it.”

Ginny twists her mouth and then points to a post-modern painting on the wall that Mike is sure costs a lot of money. A gift from Amelia.

“I want that fugly thing gone.”

“Done.” He says. “What is that anyway?”

“I dunno. Apparently it’s supposed to evoke serenity when you see it. It just gives me nightmares. I want a framed photograph of Jackie Robinson in its place.” She says. “A good one.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Really?” She looks genuinely excited.

“I know a guy.” He winces.

“Awesome, Old Man!” She scrambles up, so unfairly cute that Mike fights the urge to crack some more jokes, just to keep her smiling.

“Stop calling me ‘Old Man’, would you?” He mutters.

“Sure thing, Old Man.”

“Ha. So wise.”

“Like you, Old Man.”

“You’re gonna send me to an early grave you know that.” He shakes his head.

"That won't work for me." She moistens her lips and then grins at him sheepishly.  

“Baker?”

“Yeah.”

“You still want ramen, don’t you?”

She bites her lower lip and nods. Mike guffaws and shakes his head at her with a fondness he sees no point in pushing it away.

She's the real fucking deal - that Ginny Baker.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So? Too OOC?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for being patient on this guys. i figured it's no pitch Thursday so i'll get this up.  
> This fic looks like it's going to be a slow burn. Hope that's okay?  
> No matter how many times i watch 103, i can't stop smiling and this chapter is my homage to that.

If Ginny sets her mind to something, there’s no backing down.

He realizes this in the next few days after the talk. She sets her mind on ignoring him, and settles into it faster than he expects.

He wakes up to a racket every morning thereafter. He almost always finds her doing a whole lot of acrobatics in the morning – _before_ she goes to the gym. She has a proclivity for suspending herself upside down in some state or the other, surrounded by infuriatingly high levels noise. Lots of it.

At times, she’ll be doing yoga with the TV blaring on full-volume dispelling his assumption that yoga requires ambient silence. Sometimes, she wakes him up by blasting music throughout the apartment on the superior surround sound system while dancercising in the hall. Sometimes, she’ll hang upside down like a bat from the pull-up bar he installed in the corridor, humming at ear-splitting levels

She hums like a tomcat with stomach gripe. It gets cringingly frequent and outrageously loud and it perplexes him because the few times he’s caught her singing have been a greater surprise. Not only is she in tune, she’s also has a lovely, sultry voice that wafts through the vents and is frustratingly arousing.

She’s also uncomfortable with things with too many buttons that isn’t exercise related. She had argued and interrupted the entire duration that he taught her to use the sophisticated washing machine for the first time. Every time she operates it after, he always hears her shouting, cursing, or growling and if she really fucks it up she’ll just kick it like it’s an old rattled jukebox. She’s either too proud or too preoccupied with ignoring to call him for help and he’s lost count of the number of times he’s tried to repeat the instructions.

The same applies for their high-end microwave and the oven. Arguably worried that she’s going break the appliances, he programs in a quick-heat that will work for most things she needs whenever he’s not at home. It doesn’t help much. She’ll still growl and hiss when she botches up the programs.

Does he find it annoying? Absolutely. That’s not what bothers him. What bothers him is the fact that he finds it endearing as well.

Her appetite is less bothersome. It’s consistent, predictable and an indication of her mood. She eats less before her starts, more on the days she has only commercial commitments scheduled. When a game goes badly, she’ll sulk in front of the TV listening to the critics tear her apart, eating popcorn. Mike doesn’t intervene, because he comes to realize that it’s her way of dealing with things, she’s always more driven at the next game.

He takes it as a compliment to his culinary skills that she prefers to eat at home and take a packed meal for whenever she goes out. Barring her hatred of cilantro, she isn’t too finicky about food. She doesn’t complain much about what he cooks, doesn’t fuss even when he’s convinced things have gone wrong. He’s also surprised how genuinely interested he becomes in taking care of her food habits. He’s even taken to emailing Evelyn Sanders for tips on to prepare for Ginny as cheat meals.

 

He wakes up, one not-so-fine morning, to a familiar ‘thudding’ – a.k.a. Ginny doing cartwheels in the hallway. Nothing more. No hip-hop, no violins, no techno with screaming banshee vocals, no Beyonce, no TV, nothing.

She ignores him as always – in the sense that she doesn’t straighten up. She continues to tumble back and forth along the length of the corridor, dressed in a tightly fitting sports halter & athletic pants that don’t slip with gravity. She also ignores him in the sense that she deliberately blocks his path when he tries to walk past her.

“What are you twelve?” He grumbles, because he’s cranky. Cartwheeling is a no less of a noisy business, and it had woken him up early – earli _er_ – and his back was all stiff. “Let me around.” He adds.

She freezes upside down, balancing herself on her hands, looking up him without any remorse or shame, curly hair sweeping the floor.

“I’m ignoring you.” She pants softly.

She’s not even breathing hard is what Mike realizes, she makes it look like headstands are the most normal thing for people to do. 

“I also made coffee.” She adds.

He rubs sleep out of his eyes and looks at her face – her upturned face. Then he cuts around her to go to the kitchen. “That’s…”

“Sometimes, I _like_ to make my own coffee.” She huffs and follows him like a brat, walking on her hands just as he crosses past her, walking all the way with him and Mike’s too grumpy to laugh but his crummy mood is tickled with hilarity.

“Why so cranky, Old Man?” She huffs. “Jealous you can’t pull one of these?”

“I have resting bitch face.” He retorts.

That neighing laugh floats upwards. Mike cannot believe he’s having a conversation with her like this. He also cannot believe how badly he wants to trip her – just to give her hell. But that’s risky. 

“Don’t cry like the little girl you are when you break your million-dollar arm, Baker.”

To be frank, he’s more worried about her uninsured spine because first female or not, no one’s going to let her pitch her in the major leagues in a wheelchair.

That gets her flipping up on her feet.

“How come you’re not at the gym?” He asks, yawning loud as he heads to the kitchen.

“Didn’t feel like it today”

That is an outright lie. Mike calls her out on it. “I distinctly remember you telling me that it was better than the clubhouse gym.”

“That guy from the tenth floor - he’s always there when I go and…” She shrugs. “He’s really chatty.”

“10A or 10B?” Mike asks, making a mental note to expedite the check on him. Most of the tenants were wealthy enough to clear the society’s stringent background requirements, but Mike always made it a point to screen for hidden criminal history as well.

“10 - I dunno - 10?” She says, hopping up on the high chair. “His name is Noah something. Apparently, he’s some video game moghul.”

“He told you that?” He says.

“Eliot told me. Don’t like go all gung-ho on him. Okay?  I’m not being a snob or anything. Working out is just me time, ‘s all.”

“I’m not going to rough him up, Baker, relax.” Mike says, checking her diet chart. “That’s illegal anyway. I’ll just check him out. Anyway, the home gym equipment will come by today – so you can work out in peace.”

She seems pleased by that.

He gets a whiff of the coffee she’s made and realizes immediately that he’s been making it wrong all these days. “Why didn’t you tell me you hated the coffee?” He asks.

She shrugs. “I didn’t _hate_ it.”

“Baker.”

“Yeah okay, I wasn’t a big fan of the way you made coffee. I’m just not making a big deal about it. I don’t feel as passionately about it like I do about cilantro – or anything.”

“Yeah, okay.” He stops her. “I’m not listening to that one again.”

“But it’s tastes like s…”

“I got it. You have a gene that makes you hate it, ten percent of the population has the gene, it tastes like soap, blah fuckin’ blah– got the memo the last time you gave me a half-hour lecture.”

She giggles.

He hands her a plate of the granola and fruit bars he bakes for her pre-breakfast snacks. She munches on them loudly, keeps grinning with the same bratty expression that she had on her face when she was walking on her hands.  Makes him wonder if she’s doing it on purpose to irritate him – makes him wonder when she figured out that it did.

“So, you’re used to this?” She asks, “your clients just ignoring you.”

“Yes.”

“Do they?”

“Surprisingly well.”

“You live in close quarters with these people – and you’re totally cool with all their habits, even if _they_ annoy you?”

“You mean like all the noise you play early morning or the high amplitude with which you eat your food?” He squints one eye at her.

A naughty smile spreads on her face. Her dimples are whole different level of cute all together. “Yeah?” She chomps louder.

He hands her a glass of water. “You pay me not to take issue with that.”

“I like these.” She says. “Can you pack some in with my lunch?”

“Sure.”

“I got a game against the _Cardinals_ today.” She says. “I got premium seat tickets. You wanna come?”

He usually abides by a policy not to watch the client’s game live. Apart from the fact that he’s always busy, it makes it difficult for him to be objective about the client. Mike himself has had bad days where he’s played good games, and good days where they lost miserably. Every game or meet is not always a proper reflection of an athlete’s mental and physical status. Watching their games makes it tough to segregate what happens out in their playing arena with what they may be feeling inside. It makes Mike prone to passing judgments and offering opinions, which are unsolicited and often premature.  

He doesn’t tell her that. He doesn’t even tell her that watching a baseball game in a stadium makes him bitter and irritable.

“I’ve got things to do.” He says. “Gotta set up the room for the gym and all.”

She shrugs. “’Kay.” She munches some more. “Don’t you miss it, though? Playing baseball.”

He sighs long. “Every single day.” He admits.

She looks apologetic, starts eating like a human being for once – her chewing movements are longer and quieter. “I’d like to come home straight after the game.” She says. Mike detects a hint of edginess in her tone.

“Sure.” He pulls his phone and checks the schedule. “Er – you have a post-game appointment with some reps from –“ He squints. “Is this supposed to be _Cowgirl_?”

Baker hides her mouth under a hand and brays that laugh again.

It’s not intended to be funny; Eliot and Amelia freely use abbreviations under the presumption that he talks ‘idiot’. 

“ _Cover girl_.” She squawks between giggles.

“Oh…” Mike grasps. “Oh, that’s a ‘v’.”

“You need glasses, Old Man?”

“No, I don’t need glasses.” He scowls. “How would you interpret ‘c-o-v-g-r-l’?”

Her laugh settles. “I’d prefer it if you drove me today.” Mike detects a hint of unhappiness in her tone as well.

“Sure.”

Her phone beeps. There’s a peculiar stressed out expression that appears on her face when she reads the text. “Everything alright?” He asks.

She bites the inside of her mouth and sighs. “Yeah – yes.”

Mike knows it’s not. She abandons the granola bar half way and then just drifts off to her room, preoccupied and restless.

 

She’s quiet and distant in the car, when he drives her to Petco. Like most focussed athletes, Ginny pays as much attention to her headspace as much as her body. She zones out, headphones on, shoulders squared, eyes out on the road, spine straight, an ankle crossed over a thigh, pitching wrist resting loosely on the propped-up knee, her other hand will be draped over the armrest, and she looks very much like one of those Indian hermits. All she’s missing is a stick, saffron robes, and dreadlocks.

But things aren’t the same today. For starters, she ate breakfast to half her usual pre-game capacity, her posture is more slumped, more sad than meditative, and above all the headphones are off.   

Her phone beeps with a text that elicits the same facial reactions he’d seen earlier that morning.

“How’s it going?” He asks, going against his policy not to speak until spoken to.

“Mm?”

“I mean – you’ve been a _Padre_ more than a month now…”

“My catcher doesn’t like advance prep.” She complains.

“That’s stupid.” He remarks – again, against his policy of not voicing unsolicited personal opinions.

“I know, right?” She perks up. “You’d think I was an idiot for wanting to go over the hitters before a game!”

“Is that it? That what botherin’ you?”

“No, that’s not it.” She says. “Last time the _Padres_ played the _Cardinals_ Theo Falcone hit Tommy and broken his hand.”

“So?”

“So, there’s a code.”

Oh. She’s gearing up for a beanball war. He doesn’t bother to think it over before he speaks.

“Don’t even think about it.” Mike warns.

She huffs. “Blip said the same thing.”

“He’s a smart man. And he’s looking out for you.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!”

“Oh, I’m not telling you anything.” He drawls.

He can already see it happening though – she’ll bean one of the _Cardinals_.  He even reasons out why: to prove that she’s a teamplayer, that she’s neither above nor below any other man on the team. Then, she’ll get hit in retaliation. Best case scenario it’s a minor bruise and a debate starts on whether it’s physical assault if a male player beans a female one leading to a media shitstorm. Worst case scenario her shoulder, her elbow or her wrist get crushed, her career is finished before it even starts – leading to another gender-political debate, another media shitstorm. Either way – _he_ will have to up security measures, shield her from the vultures, deal with foul moods if the MLB suspends her and revise his contract because taking care of her will become a nightmare of epic proportions.

So, he genuinely cares about her. Big fucking deal.   

“I can do this.” She affirms. “I want to do it.”

“A whiffle ball would hurt more than any pitch you throw.” He mutters.

She doesn’t say anything. She’s visibly piqued. She tucks the corner of her mouth and looks at him. “You’re worried they might throw at me, if I hit one of them? You’re worried…they might…” she shakes her head. “…hurt the girl?”

“No.” He looks at the road.

“You’re no different.” She looks away.

“Excuse me?” He glances at her.

“You’re trying to protect me, you’re no different from those who think I don’t belong here.”

“You don’t pay me to think, Baker. And yes, you _pay_ me to protect you. That means looking out for you. If you’re trying to score brownie points with Miller or your other teammates – this isn’t the way to do it. You’re the one whose career rides on functioning body parts, not mine.”

“What makes you think I want to score brownie points with Miller?”

“What’s that you keep on harping? ‘ _I just wanna be one of the guys’_. We all know he’s the little bitch baby of the _Padres_.” He glances at her. “Look – I get it, you wanna prove you belong here. Take it from a guy whose career ended before it’s time – no amount of payback is worth a debilitating injury.”

“You’re right.”

No way she’ll agree with him that easily. Mike glances at her. She’s looking out the window. “I don’t pay you to think.” She bites out, refusing to turn her head in his direction.

He groans softly.

“You still got those tickets?” He asks her just as he pulls up in Petco. “For the game?”

“Oh, so you wanna come now?” She looks incredulous.

“If I’m going to have to deal with your whiny, attitude-y, feminist-y hissy fits afterwards, I might as well watch the whole damn thing, right? Gotta have some juicy story to share for when they write the book on you?” He mimics an interviewer. “ _Tell us Mike, how did Ginny Baker go from the second-prettiest player you’ve seen, to the ugliest mug on the planet’_.” He changes his voice to a deep, exaggerated serious tone. “‘ _Well you know Ken, she woke up that morning, wore the ‘_ I’m stupid’ _cap, decided to settle a fight that wasn’t hers in the first place, took a hundred miler right in the kisser’_.”

She’s gaping at him with wide eyes, an open mouth and horror. Mike’s certain he’s insulted her on every level now. And, probably violated a million client-service provider / boss-assistant protocols. He can even imagine Amelia’s self-satisfied sneer when she supervises his departure.

Does it bother him? Hell fucking no. Having to work with a client he’s sexually attracted to is stressful enough as it is. Worrying about her pulling some stupid stunt is not something he needs to add to the plate.     

He braces for the dismissal with a defiant glare.

Ginny narrows her eyes at him, abruptly, a smile plays at her plump lips. “Second prettiest?” She cocks her head.

Of course, Ginny Baker has to be a sticks’n’stones sort of person. Go figure. He appreciates her more with each passing moment.

Mike smirks. “Charity softball game – with DiCaprio, back in the day.” He shakes his head. “Beautiful eyes.”

“Yeah, Leo’s probably prettier than me. Young Leo, not Old Leo. Old Leo looks like a fish.” She breaks into a smile and reaches for her backpack. “You wanna hang in the VIP box?”

“If you’re gonna make an ass of yourself, I’d rather watch you do it from the frontlines.”

She doesn’t take offence at the ‘ass’. She hands him a ticket with the biggest grin he’d seen her give him. Teeth, gums, dimples and all.

“You’re gonna give Al a heart attack.” He grumbles just as she opens the door.

“No, I won’t.” She declares, hopping out of the car, doesn’t leave.

“Yeah, you will. And they’ll have to put Buck in charge – and you’ll give him a hernia.”

“No, I won’t.” She grins, resting her elbow on the open door.

“Okay, then you’ll give me a heart attack.” Mike relents. “And a hernia.”

“There you go.” She gives him a toothless smug smile.

He sighs and shakes his head at her. “Okay then - give ‘em hell.” He shrugs.

“You bet your senile ass I will, Old Man.” She grins with pride and tosses the door shut.

“I’m not an Old Man!” He hollers – finally giving in to the desire to grin.

 

* * *

 

 

If Ginny sets her mind to something, there’s no backing down.

There are things in life that Mike realizes ages a man faster than it should. Experiencing parental-level grief before he had a kid, had to be one of them.

All things considered, the game held a promise of being dramedy from the start. 

For starters, Al was thrown out, before the national anthem. At least that bit was funny. The rest of it, not so much.

Ginny started well. He was in the field box seats in the infield between home plate and first base, gave him a decent view of the action. Seeing her play with his own eyes, provided a perspective that all the high-def TV cameras could never capture. By the end of the first inning, Mike was convinced of that Ginny Baker wasn’t just a talented girl playing in a man’s team, she was a ballplayer - plain and simple.

In Mike’s opinion, baseball was a much a game of the mind as the body, there was a science to its art, a cleverness to its execution. Her screwball was undoubtedly perfect, but the other pitches in her arsenal weren’t anything to be laughed at, neither was the way she calculated the hitters. Ginny was cerebral in her approach, pitching with her brain as well as her arm.

It didn’t take him long to figure out that her high ERAs were probably the catcher’s fault. Roscoe, a new trade from the _Marlins_ was more of a dictator than a leader. He had a penchant for yelling at everyone and, there were far too many non-verbal debates between Baker and him from across the sixty feet six-inch distance. Roscoe didn’t throw enough reassurance her way, his body language itself bespoke a lot of negativity in Baker’s direction. He seemed averse to talking it out, even when she signalled to him. Heck, Buck waddled in more than Roscoe chose to get his ass out of the box. The calls that Baker gave in with blatant reluctance, were also calls that Mike wouldn’t make in that situation. The fallout of everything resulted in runs that were charged to her. 

Had he been in her situation, he’d have been losing his shit if his catcher made dumbass calls. It gave him an unexpected and profound respect for her as a player.

Being a spectator at a live game was something he hadn’t done in a while. A baseball park felt like a chamber of psychological suffering. There were too many exacting memories, too much heartache knowing he wasn’t in the dugout or out there on the diamond. Several memories, of looking over in Rachel’s direction, tugging at his chin wanting to see her encouraging smile.

But, watching Ginny play, the disappointment he felt at being on the wrong side of a baseball field began to scatter, he slipped into a supportive mode, channelling all the ‘good juju’ her way or whatever it was called. In fact, more than once, although fleetingly, she would turn in his direction and though Mike couldn’t perceive the minutia of her face, he wanted to believe she was seeking him out. He would nod, more instinct than reaction, hoping that she caught it.  

It was in those moments, Mike missed his knees more than anything. Knees that worked. Knees that would have allowed him remained on the team long enough – just for this moment. To be able to steer a rookie pitcher with tremendous potential, regardless of her gender. To be one half of the team within the team. He speculated on what their dynamic would have been like, if all the hype surrounding her would foster or hinder a friendship, if they’d squabble and banter like they did now, or if their partnership would be easy and unemotional.

All those musings are short-lived when Falcone shows up at bat.

Then Baker ups and flings a fastball straight into Falcone’s back much to the chagrin of her catcher and Mike. Her catcher merely glares at her and shakes his head, gets back in the box as Falcone takes the walk. Mike, on the other hand, his blood pressure starts rocketing.

“You’re nuts girlfriend!” Falcone yells at her

She doesn’t back down. “Sorry?” She hollers back daring him. Mike’s temples throb, they throb the whole way until it’s Baker’s turn to hit.

Falcone was hot-blooded and more prone to retaliate. Greg Mount, not so much. Mike had played with the Mountain back in the minors. The Greg he knew would rather give up the ball than be known as the brute who hit a girl, let alone the first woman player in the MLB. And if Mike were in the catcher’s box, he’d be directing those pitches so they’d run wild, choosing to have Baker take the walk rather than enter a snafu that no self-respecting pair of battery-men could ever endure in peace.  The double switch, eases the tension in his body somewhat.

Just when Mike is starting to feel less antsy, Ginny and Davis have a verbal altercation, out at the home plate. Mike assumes that Davis throws some dirty jibes Baker’s way and doesn’t worry much about it. Though he personally doesn’t approve of trash-talking to a lady, lord knows, he’s had his fair share of messing with hitter’s minds while behind the plate.

Except Ginny Baker is out to prove that she is no lady when it comes to baseball.  He should have known not to expect anything less of her.

_“What’s a girl got to do to get beaned around here, ha?”_

She may have a feisty wit but she’s also innately soft-spoken; her natural speaking voice was low-pitched and husky. How _loud_ could she have been yelling for him to hear it all the way where he was?

The Mountain - twice her height, practically cowers under the onslaught of Ginny Baker’s aggression. By the time she flings the bat to ground and marches out the box with attitude daring Mount, Mike’s already standing up, half-ready to leap over the barricades – debating the risk of being nabbed by security.

And then Davis gets in her face, ordering her to take the walk. She shoves him. The taller man starts chesting her. And then, Miller comes from nowhere, tackles the catcher to the ground, _Padres_ and _Cardinals_ spilling out onto the field after him.

Mike only exhales the long apprehensive breath he’s caught for inhumanly long when he spots Sanders corralling Baker away. He’s drenched in nervous sweat by the time the umpires throw Baker and Miller out of the game. His jaw hangs at the sight of the two of them strutting out of the field together, bumping fists like they’ve been buddies for years, their swaggering gait freakishly identical.

It takes him five minutes just to get his rabbit-paced heart to catch up. He sinks to his seat, shaking his head, starts guffawing right there, wiping his brow, and dropping his clammy head into his shaking hands.  The fans on either side of him look at him like he’s a loon. 

Mike remembers his first beanball war – thirteen years and a lifetime ago. The heat of youth, the adrenaline, the thrill. Settling agendas, bonding with rivals over a common cause, unlikely friendships formed. Things one experienced on a baseball team.    

His insides wrench with a wistful homesickness.

 _This is why_ , he tells himself – _you never go to the client’s games._

 

“Wouldn’t you have gotten in there?”

Mike doesn’t tell Evelyn Sanders that he wouldn’t jump into it at the outset unless provoked. The fines levied by the MLB for ungentlemanly conduct were huge. But, Evelyn’s far too irate and will, likely, bite his head off. She’s been rambling about Sanders apathy furiously since they met at the back door to the _Padres_ clubhouse waiting on their respective players. He’s never known a player’s wife to get so riled up about her husband _not_ getting into a scuffle.

When Sanders exits, she makes no attempt to hide her disdain. Even Sanders’ rational arguments don’t faze her.

 

“You! Scared the hell out of me!” Amelia hugs Baker when she emerges.

“You?” Baker chortles. “The Mountain throws ninety-eight miles an hour.”

Mike thinks he’s gotten pretty good at pulling off that blend of ‘way to go, champ’ and ‘don’t do that again’ effectively with a disapproving smile.  Baker crosses her eyebrows at him quizzically when she notices his face.

“My dad did that thing.” She scolds softly when they start walking towards the parking lot. “He used to get that same look – I could never tell if he wanted to spank me or pat my back.”

“I’d prefer to spank you.” He announces loudly – more for Amelia’s benefit. It’s become one of the small pleasures of life to irritate her. The blonde gets a frantic look on her face when he says that. Her heels click faster, trying to fall in line with them so she can hear what they’re saying. 

“But it would be pointless.” Mike tells Ginny, in hushed tones, once he’s satisfied with how red Amelia’s face is. “Once you set your mind to something, there’s no turning back is there?”

Ginny chuckles. “I didn’t get here by following anyone’s calls.”

His smile fades as he spots a familiar tall, dark, handsome man hunched over some crates just ahead of corridor that turns in the direction of the parking lot.

Trevor Davis straightens up, his eyes stuck on Baker. There’s a look in his eyes that only an idiot would miss. It’s familiarity – and yearning.

“What’s he doing here?” Mike asks her.

Ginny’s face – is the exact same face he’s been seeing all morning. She gathers herself. “Old Friends,” She says. He can hear the nervousness in her voice. “I got this.”

Mike glances at Amelia. She shrugs and walks past Davis.

He crosses Davis, bumps his shoulder with the man and throws a warning glance at him. Davis glares back all the way as long as they both can sustain it. Mike is the one who breaks eye contact.

“I’m gonna wait here.” He tells Amelia, slowing down his steps just as they turn around the corner.

“The meeting with the Covergirl rep just got scratched.” Amelia says, looking unhappy. “They’re worried she’ll get hurt in the face – won’t take her on without insurance.”

Mike doesn’t have a clue what that means. “So, do I take her home?” He asks.

“I was thinking you and I could have a chat.”

“About what?”

“I’d like an update on how she’s doing.”

“I don’t work for you. I don’t owe you anything.”

Amelia huffs, pinches her eyes shut and then opens them. “She’s free for the night, I guess.” Amelia says, with a tired smile that doesn’t seem as bitchy as her usual one. “You can bring the car around.”

“I’m…” Mike winces at her, “going to wait here.”

Amelia rolls her eyes and walks to the door. “Tell Ginny I said goodnight.”

Mike hangs next to stacked brown cartons of peanuts, keeping Ginny in his direct line of sight.

The conversation that she shares with Davis seems intimate. There’s no vibe of animosity or threat. Her face looks sad at first. Just as she makes to leave – Davis stops her, tells her something that upsets her.  She looks anxious, apprehensive, and fearful; runs her fingers over her angled eyebrows, pinches her lips and shakes her head, her pony tail flying wildly.

Mike doesn’t miss the ache and yearning in her eyes when she bids goodbye to Davis. He doesn’t miss the sad longing look in Davis’ eyes when he turns around, following her with his gaze.

Ginny’s so wrapped up with whatever it is that they’ve discussed that she turns around the corner, preoccupied and completely oblivious to his presence. She smiles distractedly at some of the teammates crossing her path.

“Everything’ alright?” He calls to her.

She turns around looking at him, a little freaked at first and then her face relaxes.

“Yeah – yes.”

She drifts towards him and smile. “Sorry, I went rogue today.”

He wonders why she’d apologize to him.

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right I’m not.”

She drops her backpack and leans on the cartons next to him.

“Why were you talking to a guy you just got into a brawl with?” He asks.

It is his place to ask, he tells himself. If there’s a potential threat to Ginny, he needs to know. He isn’t jealous.

He is most definitely _not_ jealous.

“Like I said – old friends.” She looks down. “We used to play against each other in Texas.”

He grunts, observes how she refuses to look at him. “Must be some bad blood.”

She sticks her her lower lip out, pouting. She shakes her head – still won’t look at him. “Just – a healthy rivalry.” She glances at him, then away.

So, she’s determined not to tell him what’s going on there. He doesn’t probe. He’ll respect her need to keep things to herself until she’s ready to tell him.

“You’re choosing your words carefully.” He points out.

“I am choosing my words carefully.” She agrees and sighs. “Every choice I make, I have to think about.”

He nods.

“If I was any other guy, any one of your male clients – you’d never say all that stuff to me you said in the car this morning. You’d either mind your own business or cheer me on, tell me to bean Falcone on his ass.”

“Fair enough.”

“And don’t tell me you wouldn’t, don’t tell me it’s because you’re supposed to look out for me…”

“I just said you were right, Baker.” He cuts her off. “Geez!”

She looks sheepish and disappointed at the same time.

Mike thinks of her catcher, thinks of the media pressure she faces daily, thinks of the sad vibes between her and Davis, thinks of how lonely her life is on this path. He thinks of how calmly she’s been coping with everything. He thinks of what she’s been facing even before he’d been taken on.

“I’ve been doing this gig for almost ten years now. I’ve seen a lot of professional players, rookies, across all the major sports. Never met anyone like you.” He says. She opens her mouth and he silences her then. “And not because you’re a girl.”

She sighs and looks down, pinching her lip.

“It’s what you’re doing – it’s what you’re having to take on.” He says – struggling to find the right words to say. “You’re – kinda blowing me away.”

Mike senses her turning her head to look at him. He glances at her, finds her staring at him with a small smile and tiny curved dimples bracketing the corners of her mouth. Her lips are pink, they look tender and soft – kissable. He looks away.

“Hey, you play golf?” She asks.

 _What?_ He scowls at her. “Do I look like I play golf?”

“You look like a cousin from duck dynasty.” She comes back quickly.

God, she makes it impossible for him to stay cranky and moody around her for long. He grins wide. “You love the beard.”

She sputters with laughter. “I do not.”

“That’s ‘cause you have a different image of me.” His words hitch when the chuckles erupt. “Probably from all the posters on your bedroom wall.” He doubles over in guffaws.

“Oh!” She hedges. “– it wasn’t my bedroom wall…”

“Aww-oh-kay!” He elbows her playfully. Gets rewarded with a snorty horsey giggle and he gets elbowed right back. She’s grunting with laughter by the end of it.

“Hey! Baker!”

Mike’s still chuckling when Miller, Hinkley and two other players come up to them. They nod at him and turn their attention to her.

“Let’s go, I’m buying.” Miller says. “I guess you could come.”

Ginny makes a shy, coy face, rolls her shoulders. “Well since you’re begging me, Tommy…”

Mike sorts his laughter, reins it all in. He throws pleasant smiles their way which they return.  They jerk their heads at Ginny to follow them.

“Hey Old Man.” She says. “Thanks for being out there, in the stands today. Felt nice – to have someone there.”

“Call me when you’re ready?” He says, failing at resisting a big grin.

She nods.

“Pick this up later.” He says, grunting when he stretches his back.

She picks up her backpack and slips the straps on. “Nothing to pick up…” She says, meaningfully.

Mike smiles at her unreservedly watching her walk away.

If Ginny sets her mind to something, there’s no backing down. Her, with her antics, adorable smile, perfect screwgie, gentle heart and tenacious spirit. Whether deliberately or unwittingly she’s set her mind into stampede into his dark world, pull the curtains back and let the light flood in. Make it impossible for him to keep personal affection separate from professional warmth.

Not that Mike minds it, one bit. He’s not the biggest fan of golf. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a mean-ass swing though. Maybe he’ll even show it to her someday.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love it. hate it. tell me. be sure to review if you want more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry it took so long to update. I was a bit distracted by smut writing.  
> So - l'm shuffling the events not sticking to canon order.  
> shout out to the reviewer who wanted me to incorporate a little princess bride (i'm sorry i couldn't find you)

The morning after the beanball game, she tells him that Amelia will be joining her for breakfast and that they’ll need privacy.

He lays Baker’s breakfast out on the table, sets up an extra plate and makes himself scarce just as Amelia arrives. When he returns in a half-hour, Amelia looks veritably concerned and determined at the same time.  Baker (he’s happy to note) looks less worked up. Amelia throws a lot of ‘I’ll fix this, don’t worry’ vibes Ginny’s way though not in so many words and unknowingly earns her first gold star of respect in Mike’s highly sceptical eyes.

From the look on Baker’s face, he knows this has something to do with Davis. Mike doesn’t prod, even though he’s convinced the situation is serious. As long as Baker isn’t bearing the burden by herself, he’s fine.

“I’d like to come home straight tonight.” She tells him on the drive to Petco for the second game.

“As you wish.” He teases her.

She doesn’t smile.

(She had told him that the Princess Bride was her favourite movie the night prior when he drove her home after beer with her friends. She was only slightly tipsy, smiling a lot more than she usually did and blabbered on how she owned a VHS of the movie.

“But it got fungusssssed…” She slurred. “I also own a DVD, used to have it on my iPod. Now, I have it on my iPad, my phone and my computer.”

“Is this gonna be a cilantro level speech?” He checks.

“Also,” She ignores him, “I must confess that Westley is my longest running crush-object.”

“Good to know.”

“Second longest, I mean.” She added with a very girly blush and hiccupped.

Mike didn’t get it until he did.

It hit him like a freight train just before he turned in for the night. He slept with an idiotic grin on his face.)

 

Al’s waiting in the player’s parking lot just as he parks the car. It’s clear on the old man’s face that he wants to talk to Mike.

“He’s checking up on me, isn’t he?” Ginny looks nervous. “Because of the beanball fight yesterday?”

“He got thrown out before the national anthem.” Mike jokes. “You should be checking up on him.”

Ginny looks sad.

“Al’s a pushover compared to Amelia.” Mike reassures her. “If I can fend off your agent, Al’s no big deal.”

She twists her mouth.

“Give ‘em hell.” Mike says.

“I’m not starting today.”

“Give ‘em hell anyway.” Mike shrugs.

“I wish everyone would ask _me_ about _me_ instead of everyone around me.” Ginny mopes.

“Baker.” Mike taps her arm, just as she unlocks the door. “Not everything has to be about you. Al and I go a long way. It must be something else.”

Ginny looks at him and then rewards him with a smile. “Sorry, I guess – I can get really caught up with myself, huh?”

“Yeah – ‘s what I’m around for, Rookie. To keep you grounded.” He winks.

“And here I thought _I_ was around to keep you young, Old Man.” She hits back, her grin widening.

Her smile feels like a victory for him.

“I like it when you call me that.” Baker says, opening the door. “Feels nice.”

“Call you what?”

“Rookie.”

“As you wish.” Mike says. “Rookie.”

She gives him a blushy smile and shake of the head, and then leaves, keeping the door open, nodding at Al and walking towards the back exit that leads to the Clubhouse.

Al grunts his way into the passenger seat and sighs.

“They gonna fire you?” Mike asks, straight up.

“Not yet.” Al sighs. “I still got a few tricks left up my sleeve.”

“If you’re gonna ask me how Baker’s doing, Al…” Mike warns.

“Mike, I know your rules – I’m not gonna ask!” Al burrs. “Though, if I was hypothetically wondering how the first woman in the major leagues is handling it all.”

“I’d say that she’s much stronger than everyone gives her credit for –” Mike answers, “hypothetically, of course.”

Al looks pleased.

“So, what’s up, Skip?” Mike says. “This feels too cloak and dagger to just be about Ginny’s wellbeing?”

“Buck saw you at the game yesterday.” Al says.

“Yeah.” Mike sighs. “So.”

“When was the last time you saw the inside of a park?”

“Five – maybe six years.”

“I’d say it was more like eight, maybe nine?” Al smirks at him.

Mike shrugs his eyebrows.

“Must be quite the strong woman to convince you that a view from the bleachers ain’t all that bad.” Al comments.

“Technically they were field box seats.” Mike retorts.

Al chuckles for a little while. Mike waits patiently until he sobers up.

“I’m gonna ask you somethin’ – and this is an off the book, off the record question.” Al says. “It’s a question from one ex-ballplayer to another, one ex-catcher to another.”

“And I will give you an off the book, off the record answer.” Mike nods, agreeing to the unverbalized request for secrecy. “From one ex-ballplayer to another, one ex-catcher to another.”

“For the record.” Al states. “I’m not asking you this because you’re her – companion-for-hire, or whatever it is you call yourself these days. I’m asking you, because you saw her play – up front yesterday.” He gives Mike an uncertain glance and says, “Baker’s statistics…aren’t getting any better.”

Mike gives Al a definitive look.

“Hey! I’m not asking you how she’s doing, am I?” Al defends.

“She’s a woman Al.” Mike says. “It’s tough, I get it. I’ll bet the whole feminist lobby burning bras at your door don’t give a rat’s ass about how unforgiving the game is or what’s expected of you – managing a team. And I’ll be honest, when she was first called up I thought she was a gimmick, myself. I compared her to the dwarf who pitched for the St. Louis Browns. If I was actively playing – I don’t honestly know if I’d be able to see past the fact that she’s a girl.”

Al nods.

“But – the fact is, _if_ she was a guy.” Mike says. “You wouldn’t be worried about her statistics so early. You’d be applauding the fact that she’s delivered from day one. She’s barely been around what? Two? Three months? She’s got a lot more grit than half the men I know. And, _you_ know she’s as good as - if not better than a lot of junk pitchers that are men.”

Al nods, with a twinge of sheepishness and rubs his face.

“Off the book, off the record, right?” Mike says, after a long silence.

Al nods, expectantly.

“Baker’s not the problem.”

“Her catcher’s the problem.” Al states immediately. The look on his face tells Mike that he was afraid to admit it all along.

“Roscoe’s a bully.” Mike states.

Al nods.

“Frankly – I think she takes a lot of his crap with more grace than I would.” Mike says. “Is he like that with the others?”

Al shakes his head.

“So, he’s a sexist and a bully.”

Al nods.

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna wish it was the year 2002 and not 2016.”

“2002? Why?”

“So, _you_ were still playing. Or maybe I’d wish you were born later? Or that your knees hadn’t given out? Or maybe that Ginny Baker was born in the eighties.” Al grumbles. “I don’t know -  the point is I’m wishin’ I could have her play with you. Even if your career was the shortest, you were one of the best I’ve worked with. You always had a knack getting the most out of a pitcher.”

Mike cocks his head at Al.

“Hey!” Al puts his psoriatic palms up. “At least I’m not wishing that they didn’t allow women in the majors, anymore.”

Mike chuckles. “Yeah, I’d say you’ve come a long way, Skip.”

Al grunts and opens the door. He shoots him a look of concern. “I saw Rachel the other day.”

Mike looks away.

“How’re you doin’ kid?” Al prods.

“I’m good, Skip – getting’ by.” He sighs. “How’d she look? She happy?”

Al looks uncomfortable.

“If she’s happy – I’m happy.” Mike reassures.

Al gives him an ‘I don’t believe you, but I don’t know what else to say’ look and exits the car.

 

 

Most of the athletes Mike’s been a live-in companion to were always surrounded by an entourage of noisy well-wishers in their free time. Friends, teammates, relatives, agents, assistants, girlfriend(s) and in some cases boyfriend(s) as well.

If Mike was being honest, he liked the peace and quiet that came with the most famous woman in America living her lonely life in her oversized apartment. But, if Ginny could worm her way into his cranky stubborn ol’ ticker, then he ought to have known that solitude wouldn’t last long.

Especially after the beanball game.

Mike drives her home the evening of the last game against the Cardinals and gets started on dinner while she showers. He’s just about to set the table when the doorbell rings.

He opens the door to a whole bunch of twenty something men looking at him like he’s the intruder.

“Woah!” One guy says. “Sorry man! We may have the uh wrong address…”

“No, Dude! That’s her assistant.” Says Number 2.

“You kiddin’ me? I thought he was her Dad!” Says Number 3 (That guy he knows – Stubbs). “He looks pissed off enough to be a Dad.”

“Her Dad passed away, you schmo!” Number 2 smacks Stubbs’s head. “Everyone knows that!”

“I didn’t.” Stubbs answers sullenly.

“Dude, he looks like he wants to kill me.” Number 3 mutters.

“Shh! He can hear you.” Number 4 hisses.

“Er hey – Mr. Baker’s Assistant?” Stubbs says, looking like he’s grown a pair of balls. “Or should we call you Mr. Assistant to Baker?”

Mike wonders when basic intelligence stopped being a requirement for hiring MLB players these days.

A husky chuckle erupts behind him.

Mike turns around and finds his lovely client looking incredibly rosy and dewy, post shower - in side-splitting silent giggles, covering her mouth.

“They think I’m deaf too, in addition to not being your dead Dad.” Mike states wryly.

Her eyes widen with hilarity and she shakes her head, covering her mouth.  Mike claps her shoulder with a small wink, leaves the door open and trudges to the kitchen. The boys barrel in without waiting for her invitation.

“Y’all better be good an’ clean up after yourselves.” Ginny orders, still giggling. “He’s got a gun and a taser and mace and an expandable baton.”

“Don’t worry Mr. Baker’s Assistant!” Number 2 hollers.

“Yeah – and we ain’t freeloaders!” Number 4 pipes up. “We brought our own food and our own beer.”

And that is how Baker’s luxury apartment turns into a frat house / social hub every other night, and Mike becomes an unwilling, hapless den dad / party host.

The married ones are somewhat tolerable. At least they leave early and don’t pass out on the couch like the single and unattached. The unmarried but committed ones usually use her place for a hideout from their ‘whiny girlfriends’. Sometimes the WAGs come by. Either with their significant others or by themselves when they decide Ginny needs a ‘girl’s night’. They’re more curious about him than her teammates. Years of dealing with their lot has him deftly evade their questions.

The only one he actually entertains conversation with is Evelyn Sanders (who he subconsciously considers a family equivalent and doesn’t count as much as a nuisance as the other gaggle of screechers). The Sanders seldom come together. On the few occasions if they do come by as a couple, it’s almost always with the kids. He ends up chatting with them more than Ginny does because she’s busy playing video games with the twins.  

His apprehensions at having to play referee or bad cop or party pooper are allayed quickly. Baker’s got her priorities right. The lines drawn on her athletic schedule are set in stone. Even her downtime is disciplined. Training, eating or practicing is always paramount. She never drinks beyond a limit. She’ll kick her friends out if she must.

Mike genuinely admires that she never screws with the work.

“I’ve got biology working against me.” She tells him when he finds her doing stretches in the newly set up home gym the morning after her teammates crashed her place for an impromptu party that had Mike convinced she was going want to sleep in. “I have to work twice as hard as everyone else. Can’t afford to go crazy.”

Hands down, easiest client he’s had. So easy, he feels sorry for her.

(She’s twenty-three, for cryin’ out loud. When he was twenty-three the only thing he did was booze, fuck and play ball.)

“Anytime you really wanna go crazy, Baker…” He tells her with an affectionate and admiring grin.

“You know a guy?” She teases back

“Just say the word and I’ll reply with an ‘As you wish’.” He returns with a wink.

She blushes again. Mike finds that particular response addictive.

 

Mike knows it would be a matter of time before Rachel found out that she was his client. Baker and he have been photographed together, especially when he’s had to fend off overenthusiastic paparazzo.

He assumes that’s why she calls him one fine morning on Baker’s day off. Rachel knows how protective and secretive he is about his clients. She’s always had a little sneaky approach to extract intel from him, so he gears up all his defences before he answers the phone.

Turns out she wants him to drive down to LA, to ‘go through his things before she sells them’.

Mike is floored. He wonders if the last thirteen years of knowing her meant nothing to her. Or if it meant so much that she couldn’t handle to be around anything related to him. It’s while he wrangles with the heartache and the need to conquer it that she goes for the kill.

“So? What’s it like living with the most famous woman in America?” She asks innocently – as though she’s trying to change the subject.

“Oh, no different from living with you.” He remarks wryly.

She giggles in that way that has Mike’s defences weaken.

“C’mon, Mike. It’s off the record.”

It’s never off the record, with her. Mike knows that. Rachel’s gotten a lot of scoops because he’s unwitting divulged things to his wife without thinking. She’s never quoted him directly or created a situation where he’s needed to quit, or had to admit privacy violations, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel guilty. Rachel knew how to use people.

“Rachel, if I tell you she’s a perfect person, will you stop trying to get me fired?” Mike turns it back on her.

“If she was perfect, why does she need you?”

“Who said she needed me? You’ve left me with practically nothing financially. I need the money.”

“So, you’re saying _you_ begged Ginny Baker for a job.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

Rachel giggles again. Mike feels that miserable yearning.

“She can’t be perfect, Mike. No one is.”

Mike looks over to where Ginny is. She’s eating breakfast with her headphones on. The Padres are going away to play the Dodgers. He knows she won’t be pitching any of the three games scheduled and yet she’s engrossed in the heatmaps on her iPad.

“I’ll see you soon.” He tells Rachel and hangs up.

He leans back against the balcony door and observing her.

Ginny rises, iPad in one hand, dutifully dropping off plates into the sink. (He’s told her several times to leave them as they are but it’s one of those quirks of hers.) She glances at him randomly and gives him a bright, relaxed smile before she goes back to her survey of her iPad.

No one is perfect, Mike agrees with that. But sometimes he wonders if that doesn’t apply to her. As a rookie player, Ginny is pretty perfect in his eyes. It’s because she _has_ to be. There’s no margin for error for the first woman in an all-boys club.

He keeps staring at her until she senses his gaze. He heads inside when she pulls off her headphones and looks at him quizzically. “What’s up?” She asks.

“Is it true?” He asks. “About the nectarines?”

She’s surprised and he can’t blame her. He’s never asked her personal questions unless it’s in the interest of some immediate material requirement and that question doesn’t seem like the type to fit in the same category as ‘what sort of shampoo do you prefer?’

“What that Pop made me throw a hundred of them till I got it right?” She says, pouting her lower lip. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Biology, I think.” She shrugs.

“Are we back to that one again?”

She frowns and then tells him about how her father never fudged up realities of playing hardball professionally.

He runs his tongue against his molars while she talks.

“That’s your thinking face.” She says, screwing her eyebrows.

 “My what?”

“You’re doing that thing.” She says, gesturing to her mouth, “– it creeps me out.”

 “Why?”

“Because your beard does another thing with it. It’s like it’s a live furry animal purring.” She wrinkles her nose. “And that’s – like – ten levels creep _ier_.”

He narrows his eyes at her. She returns with an impish smile with deep dimples.

Mike really – really wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. He deliberately repeats the ‘thinking face’.

“What’s up, Old Man?” She prompts.

“Baker.” He says. “I’m going against everything I believe in here. I’m going to give you unsolicited advice.” ( _yet again_ – he doesn’t add).

She seems amused. “Okay, shoot.”

“Your catcher is a douche.”

She bursts out laughing. That awfully hilarious noise hits his eardrums and Mike grins, instantly.

“Bessner might be a better fit for you.” He says, moving towards her.

She scoots on the couch to give him room to sit, setting the iPad aside.

“He’s a relief catcher.” She says, and from her face he can see she’s clearly thought it over.

“But you can _ask_ for him – as a preferred batterymate. I’m thinking if Amelia knew baseball, or at least understood the impact of having a poor relationship with your catcher had on your game, she’d be banging on Oscar Araguella’s door demanding it on your behalf.”

“Don’t tell me, _you_ would approve that kind of interference.” She looks disappointed.

“Rookie, you’re the biggest thing in Baseball right now. No one says no to you. And even if you weren’t – there’s nothing wrong in asking for a catcher of your choice.” He says. “A male pitcher in the major leagues – wouldn’t have thought twice about raising doubts.”

“But then I’ll be seen as a spoilt little girl demanding her way. Look, Amelia’s already stuck her foot in – demanding things for me, threatening to sue the club for sexism and what not. They already think that I’m a…”

“Hey.” He says. “You’re the one who says you didn’t get here by following anyone’s calls. Where’s all that spunk gone?”

She chews her lip and looks down like she’s unhappy.

“It’s just that - the guys are starting to treat me as one of their own.” She speaks, softly. “And – they’re already so fed up of hearing all the chatter about me.” She shrugs. “If I complain about Roscoe…” She doesn’t complete.

It fuels more chatter, Mike understands that.

“I don’t care about how they perceive me. I’ve dealt with worse in the minors.” She says. “It’s just – the sooner they accept me, the faster I can focus on the game. I am a ballplayer first. And it is a team sport.”

Mike doesn’t tell her that most of ballplayers can’t give a hoot about what’s best for the team as long as they’re getting their fifteen minutes of fame. He picks up the iPad and checks the heatmaps. She’s typed little notes in and around for specific hitters. He thinks she should be sitting and discussing this with her catcher, not dealing with this on her own.

“The problem here is you’re overcompensating for Roscoe’s stupidity by stepping up your game.” He declares. “You have a long road ahead of you, Rookie. You’ll burn out – before you even get started. You need to trust someone. You need to tell Al. If you don't ask for what you need, he's never going to be able to help you.”

She looks like she’s about to start her nervous routine. (The combing her curly mane with her hands, puffing out air, jumping up and pacing, sitting for all of five seconds before she jumps up and paces again.)

“Hey! I’m not sayin’ all this ‘cause I care about you or anythin’” He distracts her as soon as she lifts her hand to shove into her hairline. “But you are the one who signs my paycheque.”

“Maybe I’ll talk to him after LA.” She says, unconcerned with his jibe.

He pats her back and rises, wincing at when his knee creaks.

She looks up at him uncertainly. “Will you come with -?”

“To LA? As you wish.”

She does the blushy thing again. Mike wonders what is wrong with him that he likes it so much.

“I mean, if it’s not a big…”

“Baker…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m paying you, yadda yadda.” She rolls her eyes.

“The sooner they throw you out of the league the sooner I’ll have my life back” He shrugs with a straight face.

“’Cause I’m such an inconvenience to you now?” She mocks.

He makes a face. “Of course you are! You’re a pain in the ass!”

She rolls her eyes again, with a smile threatening to break over her face.

“Now because of you, I have to go to LA and I have to go see my pain in my other ass ex-wife who’s just hell bent on ruining my life, even though we’re no longer married.” He rants.

Her face goes blank before she puckers her mouth uncertainly.

“She wants me to go through my things, y’know. Before she sells them.” Mike says, watching that nervous expression fade and a ‘god help me, what have I started’ look over takes it.

“ _Tsk!_ What she really wants to do is get back together with me.” Mike asserts.

“Haha.” She grimaces.

“Now why did god make me so damn appealing to women!” He shakes his head looking away with feigned frustration. “I tell you it’s a curse, Baker, it really is.”

She eyes his beard with a grossed out look that he’d take offence at if he weren’t satisfied with the amused grin on her face.

“C’mon Rookie.” He nudges her with a small poke at her shoulder. “Let’s make you somethin’ to eat.”

The speed and alacrity with which she bounds off the couch at the prospect of food has to be a flaw, right?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Al’s ultimate faux pas gets proverbially ‘announced from the rooftops’ just after Mike sees Ginny off on the bus and follows in his car. In the aftermath of the sexual assault of a female athlete in Florida, it could not have come at a worse time.

If Baker hadn’t already caught the news, he’s pretty sure the swarm of reporters flooding around the hotel would take care of it.

Mike knew where the bus dropped off even before Amelia texted him to arrive at the service entrance of the Omni in LA.

He waits behind the security guard as the bus rolls in. Al emerges first, looking like a stuffed goose. A herd of reporters attack him from behind the barricades set up by security.

Mike uses his ID to wade past security towards the front exit of the bus as Buck and some players file out. Roscoe drifts past, snorting condescendingly. Mike catches him mutter. “Fuckin’ feminist freak show.”

Sanders comes out, looking at the mob with worry. He nods as soon as he spots Mike and waits with him at the door. The other players file out rolling their eyes or looking irritated.

Baker exits last, with her head down, Salvamini, Evers and Voorhies stepping out before her forming a flank. She jerks when Mike catches her arm but immediately relaxes when she realizes it’s him. He tucks her into his side, and directs her. She keeps her head down as he uses the distraction of the reporters and the buffer provided by her teammates to navigate her smoothly towards the service entrance.

When he finally gets a proper look at her face, her expression is stoic but he can see a shadow of betrayal and hurt in her eyes. He doubts Ginny will confide her problems with Roscoe to Al any time soon.

Amelia’s waiting for her at the check-in lounge, throwing disapproving glances at Al as he walks past. She looks unhappier when Ginny drifts closer to Mike when they escort her to the room.

Oscar Araguella is waiting on her. He’s as surprised to see Mike as Mike is to see him.

They make small talk while Ginny excuses herself to use the bathroom. Mike is about to leave the living room once Ginny comes back and Araguella asks to speak with her. Ginny asks him to stay.

Mike knows Oscar won’t mind but Amelia’s unhappiness goes up another notch.

Mike hangs with Eliot at the dining table overhearing the not-so-subtle request that Araguella makes on Al’s behalf. Ginny seems ready to jump on the support bandwagon and Amelia (as always) interrupts just before Ginny commits.

Mike’s professionalism requires for him to put Ginny first. But, he’s also tempted to conciliate Ginny on Al’s behalf. Al, who’s been a father figure to Mike, the one man that Mike will never apologize having a soft corner for.

Mike’s got half a mind to stick his foot in while he overhears Amelia instructing her client against supporting a: ‘misogynist who made comments about her looks’. He’s got three quarters of a mind to damper Amelia when she emotionally blackmails Ginny into acting against her personal desire to support Al, casually dismissing Baker’s need to ‘be one of the guys’. He’s full on prepared to confront Amelia when she manipulates Ginny into backing down citing the argument that it’s not just Ginny’s life. (As though Amelia had been the one throwing a hundred nectarines as a teenager preparing for the major leagues.)

Ginny tells Oscar she’ll think about it and he leaves disappointed. After Oscar leaves, Amelia reminds Ginny about her struggle to make it to the minors. That’s when Mike decides that it is not in Ginny’s best interest to antagonize Amelia completely.

Not that it stops him being a snark.

“Aren’t you gonna…?” Amelia gestures to the small suitcase that the bellboy brings up, looking at Mike expectantly.

“I’m not her handmaid.” Mike snorts. “I don’t pack. I don’t unpack.”

She shakes her head him heatedly and then does the usual about-face.

(He doesn’t tell her that Ginny preferred to pack her things herself because: “Ew, I don’t want _you_ to see what underwear I carry!” was a convincing enough argument for him to not offer packing services.)

Ginny unpacks while Amelia follows Ginny around the suite, yapping about Kimmel as though she didn’t just want to kill Mike less than ten seconds back.

Mike sets a pot of coffee while Eliot turns the TV on. The nth repeat of Al’s senseless comments plays.

Baker comes around from the bedroom, grabs the remote and changes the channel. Mike finds it entertaining to watch her stomp around the room while Amelia just follows her on the roundabout, going on and on about Kimmel deliberately ignoring their client’s irritation.

The same news comes on another channel. Ginny comes around from the bedroom again, grabs the remote, flips it again and again. In fact, the news is on every channel, even the non-sports ones, some even going to the level of discussion on what life is like for Baker in a sexist clubhouse.

The coffee maker starts to whistle, but it doesn’t mask Rachel’s voice floating into the room. Ginny’s changed the channel to a repeat of Rachel’s show from last night where she calls for Ginny Baker’s opinion on the Florida rape case in that misleadingly charming way she does things. Mike closes his eyes to gather himself at first. Then he hands Ginny the cup of coffee, takes the remote from her and turns the TV off with a shrug.

He sees the first smile from her since they arrived in LA.

“Will you stay here, tonight.” She asks (Mike pretends he doesn’t see Amelia’s eyes widen and her mouth flatten).

“As you wish.” He replies.

She gives him the blushing smile.

For some reason the burden of his divorce feels easier to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, I'm getting less and less convinced of Mike.  
> If you feel the same please let me know.

**Author's Note:**

> *bites nails.*  
> 


End file.
